


(don't need no minister) to give you my heart

by singsongsung



Series: tales of an endless heart [4]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Baby Makin', F/M, Marriage Proposal, Multi, Wedding Planning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-08 23:51:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11657262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singsongsung/pseuds/singsongsung
Summary: It’s been years since Jughead wondered if Betty was too good for him, years since he felt insecure - she’s his, he’s hers, they’reit- but nonetheless, he wishes they could just make it official already.Or: A wedding, several proposals, and one serious case of baby fever.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to p0e-damer0n and rachelwrites007 over on tumblr for helping this Canadian girl paint a more authentic picture of life in Boston than I would have otherwise. 
> 
> Title is from "Savannah" by the Arkells.

_i found a lover_  
 _to carry more than just my secrets_  
 _to carry love, to carry children_  
 _of our own_  
\- ed sheeran, "perfect"

 

**March 2031.**

 

It starts when Veronica calls at three in the morning. Even from the other side of the bed, head pressed firmly into his pillow, Jughead can hear Veronica’s high, excited voice coming through the speaker of Betty’s phone. Soon enough, Betty’s propping a pillow behind her and sitting up a bit, still sleepy-eyed but squealing right back, her smile a spot of brightness in the otherwise dark room. 

At the sound of her happy voice, Nacho flings himself up onto the bed, pawing at the blankets excitedly. Their cane corso puppy is still bleary-eyed with sleep, but is nonetheless eager to play if it’s even a slim possibility. Betty smiles at him and rubs his head, tilting the phone away from her mouth slightly to tell Jughead, “Veronica and Cheryl are engaged!” 

He goes totally still. Betty must assume he’s half-asleep, because she laughs fondly and tells Veronica, “Jug says congrats.” 

Jughead hauls Nacho closer to him, and the dog flops over for a belly rub. It’s good that Betty’s speaking for him, because if he had to speak for himself, _congrats_ would not be his word of choice. At this point, the only thing he has to say to Veronica - or to Cheryl, whoever did the proposing - is _fuck you_. 

 

 

After she hangs up, Betty snuggles back down under the blankets, takes over rubbing Nacho’s belly, and begins the narrate the details of Veronica and Cheryl’s engagement. Jughead pays enough attention to catch key words - _horses, midnight, Tiffany’s_ \- but the thoughts flying through his mind demand most of his concentration. 

He’s been trying to get Betty to marry him for three years. He first told her that he wanted to marry her when they were only weeks into the new, adult iteration of their relationship, and he’s said it countless times since: _marry me_. In the beginning, she would get adorably bashful (“Jug, _stop_ ”), later on she would tease him with emphatic answers (“Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!”), and more recently she’s been looking at him with soft, earnest eyes (“Of course I want to marry you, Juggie”).

He proposed to her shortly after they moved to Boston, a proposal that was entirely real, one of his knees on the ground and a painfully sentimental speech spilling out his mouth, but that lacked a ring. Betty had knelt down in front of him and linked her hands at the back of his neck, her fingers slipping into the hair at the base of his skull in the way he always found so soothing, and told him, with tears in her eyes, that she loved him, that she’d love him forever, but that she just didn’t feel right about getting divorced and engaged in the same year. 

“When you ask me again,” she’d said, in the softest voice, full of tenderness, “I’ll say yes.” 

So they settled in Boston, and Betty worked crazy hours and got great bylines, and Jughead took a part-time gig at a tutoring centre and dedicated his mornings to writing his second novel, which was published last year. It was around that time that he started looking at rings and found himself involved in lengthy text conversations with Veronica about diamond cuts and band metals; it was around that time that Betty floated the idea of having a baby, the sparkle of hope in her eyes belying her casual tone. He found himself reading numerous long-form articles about De Beers and the diamond industry, and, to his great disbelief, found himself in an honest-to-god fight with Veronica when he suggested looking into “artisan-created” stones. It was during the three days he wasn’t speaking to Veronica that Betty, who was helping a colleague with an investigative piece, texted him to come to the Animal Rescue League. 

When he arrived, she was already holding Nacho, his small squishy face pressed to her cheek, and that sight melted away all of Jughead’s crankiness - he was powerless to say anything but _yes_.

Since then, he’s made up with Veronica, purchased a ring, and hidden it. Nacho’s been a royal terror and has finally learned some good behaviour in puppy classes. Betty's showed him a series of photos of toddlers curled up with their canine best friends and then said, steadily, “I feel like I’m ready. How do you feel?” They’d had a conversation so honest he ended up with his face pressed to her chest, tears in his eyes, his fingers digging into her torso with the force of his hug, and she’d gone off her birth control. 

And tomorrow - _tonight_ , given that they’re in the small hours of a brand new day - he was going to propose. He was going to meet her after the interview she’s doing at the MFA, pretending his presence was a spur-of-the-moment decision, take her to Mike’s Pastry for cannoli, even though he personally prefers their competitor, Modern, and then suggest a walk in the Common, where they’d gone in the evening on the day he’d moved to the city and walked and talked with their hands clasped, the future spread out before them. He was going to have his favourite student, Rosie, and her dad bring Nacho to the park, and he planned to have them put a sign around Nacho’s neck that said _will you marry my dad?_ , which is the sort of sappy bullshit he never imagined he’d do - but he can envision the look on Betty’s face exactly, her half-smile and her happy tears, so he bought the fucking sign for the dog from a crafty online shop. 

But now - 

“Are you falling asleep on me?” Betty asks, snapping him out of his reverie. Her tone is teasing, but the crease between her brows is one that borders on concern. 

He reaches over Nacho, who can barely keep his eyes open, and rubs his thumb over her skin to smooth it out again. “No, wide awake. It sounds like Ronnie’s really happy.” 

“Yeah,” she says warmly. “Cheryl really pulled out all the stops, and she’s pretending it was all unnecessary, but…” 

“She’s loving it,” he says, completing her sentence. It makes sense that Cheryl proposed - Veronica would’ve talked to him first, he thinks, to avoid this exact situation. There’s no way in hell he can propose to Betty tonight; Ronnie and Cheryl’s relationship has been every bit as much of a rollercoaster as theirs, and he and Betty can’t steal their thunder. Veronica might understand, but Cheryl Blossom isn’t the forgiving type. 

He wonders how much time Emily Post says should pass between best friends getting engaged to their long-term partners. With his luck, it’s probably years. 

Betty, he realizes, is giving him bedroom eyes from the other side of Nacho’s snoring body, her teeth digging lightly into her bottom lip. “Wide awake, huh?” she says. 

All his annoyance slips to the back of his mind as he watches the middle of her lip lighten from the pressure of her teeth. “Definitely not asleep,” he says lightly. 

“I’m pretty awake, too.” She looks down at Nacho and then up at him pointedly. 

With an overdramatic sigh, Jughead throws back the blankets and gets out of bed, taking the puppy with him. He carries Nacho to the living room and puts him down on the bizarrely expensive, cushiony bed Betty’d said he _needed_ ; he has to crouch down at pat Nacho for a couple minutes before the dog finally settles in to sleep. 

When he returns to the bedroom, Betty’s shoulders, which peek out above the blankets, are bare, though she was wearing a t-shirt when he left. She gives her eyebrows a little wiggle and he practically dives under the blankets to join her, hands sliding greedily all over her bare skin. A moment later his boxers are off, and he’s slipping a hand between them to make sure she’s ready for him, and then her legs are wrapped around him as he thrusts into her. Betty’s hips lift to meet his and her head tips back into the pillow, giving him room to work as he sucks a mark onto the column of her neck. 

“ _Harder_ ,” she breathes, and the notes of need in her voice tear a groan from his throat. She keeps whispering to him, _yes, Juggie, god, yes_ , words punctuated by sharp little gasps, and that’s all it takes to push him over the edge. He pulls out just before he comes and spills all over her stomach.

 

 

He hands her the box of tissues on the bedside table so she can clean up, and once she’s wiped off her stomach, she gets up to go throw the wad of tissues into the trashcan. She tosses her discarded underwear into the laundry basket, grabs a fresh pair of panties out of the dresser, and steps into them before she pulls her t-shirt back over her head. He watches her move about with eyes that are beginning to ache for sleep, and when she comes back to the bed he extends an arm toward her, ready to fall back into slumber with her nestled against him, but she sits on the mattress instead of lying down. 

“Why did you do that?” she asks softly. Her hair is a mess around her shoulder, and although the room is dark, he can see something bright in her eyes that resembles hurt. 

Jughead sighs, running his hand down her arm. “Habit, I guess. Let’s sleep, baby.”

“Habit?” she repeats skeptically; as he suspected, she’s not going to let him out of this conversation that easily. 

“It’s the middle of the night, Betts. I wasn’t really thinking.” 

“Jug - ” He can hear her suck in a breath, and her next words are careful. “If you’re having second thoughts, you can tell me.” 

“Hey.” He sits up and cups her cheek in one of his hands. “I’m not. I want to knock you up, I promise.” 

She doesn’t smile like he’d hoped she would. “Then why did you pull out?” 

He sighs. Betty doesn’t know that when he said _okay; let’s have a baby_ , his commitment to the idea was partially informed by the fact that he planned to propose about a month later. He didn’t feel the need to tell her - his carefully-planned proposal was a surprise, and it’s not like informing her would have any effect on her fertility. But he had taken into consideration the fact that even if she got pregnant right away, they’d be engaged by the time she realized. 

She hadn’t quite understood, the one time he’d mentioned that it might be nice to be married before they started a family. She’d reminded him of his teenaged grumblings about marriage being a capitalist institution, she’d said that a signed piece of paper changed absolutely nothing about their feelings for one another, and on an intellectual level he agrees with her, completely. But on an emotional level, the stupid societal institution has come to mean something to him. It isn’t the same for her: she’s been married before, and though she grew up in a family with its fair share of dysfunction, it was a family that had decidedly wanted her existence. He wants to send that kind of message to his own kid: _Your mom and I planned to be together forever. Your mom and I planned for you. Your mom and I wanted you; you are wanted._

“Jug,” Betty says, bringing him back to reality for the second time in so many hours, her brows knit more firmly this time. She’s got the steeled expression she wears when she’s prepared for something to make her sad. “Honey, talk to me.” 

He leans over and gives her a kiss. He can feel her sink into it, and he puts a hand to the back of her neck. He might be a wordsmith in his professional life, but he can say so much to her in a kiss, and she always understands. When she melts into him like she is right now, it’s as though whatever solace his mouth gives to her is returned to him, twofold. 

He breaks away from her just enough to say, “Marry me.” 

Betty’s lips curve into a smile as her eyes flutter open. “Yes,” she says simply. 

“I mean it, Betts.” He gets up, not even bothering to put his boxers back on, and rifles around in his side of the closet for a moment. He goes back to her with the box in hand, cracking it open as he sits. “Marry me.” 

Both of her hands are pressed to her chest, her mouth open in surprise. She stares at the ring for several seconds before she looks at his face. “Juggie,” she whispers, a thousand questions in her eyes.

“I was going to do it tomorrow night - or tonight, now. I had this whole plan.” 

“Oh, Jug,” she murmurs, blinking hard to keep from crying. “I love it; it’s so beautiful.” She looks back at the ring, an aquamarine stone with a halo of diamonds. Its colour had reminded him of her eyes in certain lights. 

“I was going to get you Mike’s cannoli,” he says. 

Her bottom lip trembles with the threat of tears even as she smiles. “V and Cheryl,” she says quietly, understanding. 

“Yeah,” he says on a heavy sigh. “Ronnie knew that I was planning to do it soon, but I asked her not to tell Cheryl, and since I’m pretty sure Cheryl’s not _quite_ so petty as to try to beat me to the punch out of spite, I’m assuming she kept her promise.” 

Betty shakes her head a little. “I love you,” she says. 

“I love you too,” he says, and offers her a rueful smile. “But you’re not saying yes to me, are you?” 

On her knees, she shifts closer to him, touching his cheeks, his shoulders, his chest. “Of course I am,” she says, and then responds to his smile with a wry one of her own. “Just not a… wear-the-ring, social-media-official kind of yes.”

“Want to wear it tonight?” he asks. “Just tonight?” 

She hesitates, looking at the ring, then at him, then back at the ring once more. “Okay,” she finally says, a hint of giddiness in her voice. 

He takes the ring out of the box and she holds her left hand out to him. He slides it onto her finger, and he’s barely got it past her knuckle when she leans in and kisses him, hard. 

After they pull apart, she adjusts the ring on her finger and holds her hand out to inspect it. “Perfect fit,” she says, smiling at him. 

Jughead reaches out and tucks her hair behind one of her ears. “That’s what you are to me,” he says. 

Betty grins. “ _Cheeseball_ ,” she says, nothing but fondness in her voice. She moves even closer, straddling his lap, her arms winding around him. 

“Why did you put clothes on again?” he asks, moving his mouth over the line of her jaw. He tips her backward, pressing her into the mattress and settling between her legs. 

“You can take them off.” She touches his chest with her newly bejewelled hand, the thin metal band cool against his skin. He makes quick work of getting her naked.

She sighs as he kisses the valley between her breasts, her back arching slightly. “Get me pregnant, Juggie,” she says, her voice an impatient murmur. 

Her ring glints in the moonlight as he lifts her hands and pins them above her head. He gives it his very best try. 

 

 

As usual, Betty rises before him on Saturday and takes Nacho for a walk. The enticing smell of the coffee she brews once she’s returned rouses Jughead, and he plods to the kitchen in his bare feet to find her sitting at their small table wearing leggings and a hoodie, a mug cradled in her hands. 

“Good morning, sunshine,” she says. 

He makes an indistinct noise, dropping a kiss atop her head before he pours himself a cup of coffee. 

“I don’t think Veronica’s gone to sleep yet,” Betty says. “She texted me at five asking me to be her maid of honour, and then again at seven asking me to ignore the text because a formal request would be coming in the mail.” 

He turns away from the coffeemaker and puts a hand to his chest, feigning offense. “ _You_? She asked _you_ , and not _me_?” 

She grins. “Oh, honey, don’t worry. You’ve still got a shot at being a bridesmaid.” 

“Thank god. I live to throw bachelorette parties.” He joins her at the table and Nacho comes over, setting his front paws up on Jughead’s thigh, looking for love. 

“Speaking of - well, bachelors - Archie called while I was on my walk. He sounded a little freaked out. He doesn’t know how you’re supposed to react when your ex-girlfriends get engaged.” 

“What did you tell him?”

“I said I didn’t know, either. It’s not like I dated half the girls at Riverdale High.” 

Jughead lifts one eyebrow and she gives him a sheepish smile. “Damn, Betts, that’s tough love. If I have to listen to Archie singing some melancholy song on the radio for the next six months, I’m blaming you.” 

“Yeah, yeah, story of my life,” she says dismissively. “I said you’d call him later.”

He shakes his head and teases, “Making me undo your damage.” 

“Why do you think I keep you around?” She quirks an eyebrow at him, eyes twinkling with mischief, and then drops her gaze to her hands, removing them from around her mug. She takes the ring off and holds it out to him. “This should go back in its box,” she says, an apologetic expression on his face. 

He looks at the ring but makes no move to accept it. “You sure?” 

She nods. “Just for a while.” She reaches out with her free hand to folds her fingers around his. “But you know my answer’s yes. I want to be your wife.” 

Her eyes are full of sincerity, of love, of something gently wistful. Jughead nods, using their joined hands to tug her closer, and she lifts herself out of her chair slightly to lean across the table and kiss him. With reluctance, he allows her to place the ring in the centre of his palm. 

“I’ve got to shower and get ready,” she says, crossing the kitchen and placing her mug in the sink. “You boys be good,” she adds, and Jughead wants to volley back a reply, to settle into their usual banter, but this morning, ring in hand and his mug only half-empty, he can only offer her a fleeting smile. 

 

 

After Betty leaves, Jughead goes into their second bedroom, his home office, and retrieves his phone from its charger. It turns out he has a text from Veronica awaiting his attention, too. It says _hey, know you were planning on popping the question soon. we didnt take your moment did we?_

It’s hard to stay annoyed in the face of a text like that; it’s hard to stay annoyed with Veronica, who is his best friend in a way that’s different, not a familiar face from childhood like Archie or Betty, but someone who’s learned to like him along the way. 

_it’s ok ronnie,_ he replies. _I’m really happy for you._

Her response is immediate: _fuck, jug. i’m sorry._

_it’s ok,_ he says again, and mostly means it. _not even you can control cheryl blossom._

_still…_

He sighs. Her feeling guilty won’t change anything, and he doesn’t want to a put a damper on her happy day. _it’s really ok. you’ll make it up to me by getting a really good wedding cake._

_i promise_ , she writes, followed by a string of six hearts. 

Jughead closes out of his messaging app and goes into his favourite contacts, hitting Archie’s name with his thumb. The call is picked up after only two rings. 

“ _Dude_ ,” Archie says. “This is so weird. Please tell me the right words to say to them.” 

Jughead drops into his desk chair and lifts his feet up onto the desk; he wonders if, in another universe, where he was able to go through with his proposal, Archie his having a similar conversation with Veronica about the weirdness of his ex and his best friend marrying. “‘Congrats’ is always a safe bet,” he says wryly. 

“That seems too casual,” Archie says fretfully, and it becomes clear to Jughead that Archie is experiencing one of the overly-thoughtful moments he'll have sometimes, as if to make up for all the situations in which he _doesn’t_ think. 

Affection tugs his lips into a smile, and he suggests, “Best wishes?” 

 

 

He meets Betty at the MFA after her interview, like he’d always intended to. He’d called Joel, Rosie’s dad, and cancelled the proposal arrangements, so Nacho is at home, probably trying to eat some part of their sofa, but there’s no reason he can’t turn the rest of his plans into a date night. 

Betty’s got her winter coat belted at the waist and she’s wearing what he jokingly calls her Serious Business Shoes, the black pumps she always puts on when she’s trying to give off her most professional air, which make her legs look especially lengthy and incredible. Her face lights up in a smile when she spots him, and he thinks, for the millionth time, _holy shit, that’s my girl_. It’s been years since he wondered if she was too good for him, years since he felt insecure - she’s his, he’s hers, they’re _it_ \- but nonetheless, he wishes they could just fucking make it official already. 

“What are you doing here?” she asks brightly, wrapping her arms around him and planting a kiss on his lips. 

He squeezes her in a hug so tight it lifts her momentarily off her feet, making her laugh. “Taking you for cannoli.” He fits his arm around her waist, guiding her toward the building’s exit. “But at Modern, since I don’t have to woo you.” 

She slides him one of those looks of hers, one that says, fondly, _asshole_ , but she’s wearing that small, heartfelt smile she gets in affecting moments. “No,” she says in the sweet voice that can demolish his emotional walls in less than a second. “You don’t.” 

 

 

tbc.


	2. Chapter 2

**June 2031.**

 

Spring finds Betty Cooper (last name technically Andrews, to be changed, at some point in the near-ish future, to Jones) sitting in a pristine bridal salon in Manhattan, wearing a floor-length gown in a deep, sultry red. She’s sitting on the stiff cushions of a sofa that looks like it belongs in Marie Antoinette’s boudoir with Ainsley, Veronica’s childhood friend, and Emilia, Cheryl’s bestie from Montreal. The brides-to-be are squished together in an armchair, and Betty’s niece Lizzie stands on a pedestal while the rest of them examine the dress she’s wearing. Veronica and Cheryl are both still waffling when it comes to choosing their own dresses, but with their wedding party assembled in its entirety in New York on this weekend and this weekend only, decisions about bridesmaids dresses need to be made. 

Betty smiles up at Lizzie while Cheryl and Veronica bicker about the neckline on her dress. It’s her niece’s first-ever trip to New York City, and she’s the responsibility of her aunts, having come on her own; for a fourteen-year-old, it’s about as good as it gets. 

“Betty, back me up here,” Veronica sighs, standing and approaching the pedestal. “There’s no way Polly and Carter would let her wear this.” 

Trying to channel Lizzie’s mother and stepfather, Betty looks her niece over. The fairly deep dip in the middle of the dress’ sweetheart neckline _does_ look risqué on a teenager, especially because Lizzie does not yet have the boobs to hold up the strapless dress. “Sorry, Liz,” she says. “I’ve got to be your mom’s voice here. V’s right; there needs to be some fabric added.”

“Please, she’ll be fifteen by the wedding,” Cheryl says. “Let her wear it if she wants to. It’s not like we’re inviting perverts.” 

“Please, Aunt B?” Lizzie begs. 

Betty shakes her head, apologetic but firm. “Maybe for my wedding,” she offers, dropping one eyelid in a wink.

Lizzie huffs, crossing her arms. With her red hair cascading over her shoulders, she looks so much like Cheryl did, once, except for her eyes, which are all Cooper. “I’ve already _been_ in your wedding,” she points out. “And I looked like a marshmallow.” 

“You were five,” Betty reminds her. 

“But you’re not even _engaged_.” 

“All the more time for you to grow up enough to be left in charge of how much cleavage you’re going to bare,” Veronica cuts in. “You’re going to look beautiful, Lizzie, I promise. You can go get changed.” She looks over her shoulder at the women on the sofa. “You all can. I think we’re good, right?” She glances Cheryl, who nods. 

“This is so exciting,” Ainsley says warmly as they all get to their feet, and a moment later they’re all tangled together in a group hug. When the bridesmaids peel off, heading for the dressing rooms, Veronica and Cheryl keep their arms around each other, both of them wearing pleased smiles. 

Betty returns to her curtained-off dressing room, undoes the hidden side zipper of her dress, and steps out of it - as she does, she sees a flash of red out of the corner of her eye, a brighter red than the fabric of her dress, and she realizes a beat later that there’s a bloodstain on the dress’ crinoline underskirt. She stares at it for a full minute, as if it’s something she fundamentally cannot comprehend, and then it sinks in: she’s gotten her period. Her underwear is bloody, too. 

She’s eight days late, according to the app on her phone. When she left Boston, she’d been five days late, but she hadn’t told Jughead, hadn’t wanted to make a big deal over something that might have meant nothing - after all, without the pill to dictate her cycle, irregularity isn’t all that surprising. But when she’d hit the seven-day mark, when she was a full week late, she’d allowed herself the thought: _am I pregnant?_ The absence of any PMS symptoms only supported the possibility. 

And now here she is, in the whitest store she’s ever been in, bleeding through her underwear, staining a designer gown - and definitely not pregnant. 

With somewhat shaky hands, she puts her bra back on and tugs the t-shirt dress she’d worn to the appointment over her head. When she pulls the curtain aside slightly, peeking out, she realizes everyone else is waiting for her, which only makes her heart sink further. 

“Veronica,” she says, but the brunette doesn’t turn, so she tries again, louder this time, “ _Veronica_.” It works; Veronica hears her and turns around. Betty crooks a finger to indicate that she should come over to the dressing room. 

“What’s up?” Veronica asks as she approaches, and then, once she gets a good look at Betty’s face, “What’s wrong?” 

Betty holds the curtain aside so that Veronica can step into the change room, and then blurts, her voice just a touch louder than a whisper, “I bled on the dress.” 

“What?” 

“I just got my period, and I - I guess when I was sitting on the couch - ” She gestures to the dress. “There’s blood on the crinoline.” 

Veronica’s eyes are sharply focused, like she’s studying Betty, trying to figure out why she’s so upset. “That’s okay, B,” she says gently, easily. “It’s not a big deal.” 

“Of course it is. This dress isn’t exactly cheap, I’ll probably have to pay for it - ” And then all of her sadness, which she’s _just_ been managing to keep controlled, the only evidence of it in her shaking voice and trembling hands, bursts out of her. Her eyes are so wet that tears immediately begin to roll down her cheeks, and a sob wells up inside her until she can’t contain it any longer. She claps a hand over her mouth, trying to silence herself. 

“Betty, hey,” Veronica says, touching Betty’s upper arms. “It’s okay, it’s fine. I’ll pay for it. Honey, it’s not a big deal at _all_ ; don’t worry. Don’t cry.” Her eyes move over Betty’s face, searching for an explanation for this breakdown. “Oh, B,” she sighs, pulling Betty into a hug. “It’s okay.” 

Choking on another sob, Betty dips her head and buries her face in Veronica’s shoulder. 

Veronica gives her a couple minutes to cry, stroking her hair, and then eases away so she can look into Betty’s face again. “B?” she probes, concern painted over her features. 

Betty sniffles, wishing she had one of the boxes of tissues peppered all over the salon in case a bride’s beauty brought you to tears. As it stands, she has to wipe her nose on the back of her hand. “I thought I was pregnant,” she says. The sound of her inhale is nothing but choppy gasps as she tries to quell a fresh batch of tears. 

Veronica looks at her with wide eyes for a moment, but as always, she peels back layers quickly, finding what’s unsaid. “And you wanted to be,” she says, her voice still gentle as can be, though Betty can hear her surprise. 

She nods miserably and confesses, “We’re trying.” 

“B, oh my god,” Veronica says, smiling before her expression melts into sympathy. “I’m sorry, then. That you’re not. But you will be,” she says firmly, with confidence, before she wraps Betty up in another hug. 

Here, in this dressing room, Betty says the words to Veronica that she’s not yet been brave enough to say to Jughead. “My mother and my sister both got pregnant as teenagers, without even trying.” She swallows around the lump in her throat. “What if I waited too long?” 

“Betty, no,” Veronica says as they pull apart. “You didn’t wait too long. You’re thirty, not fifty. How long has it been?” 

She wipes tears from her cheeks. “Five months.” 

“That’s not that long, right? In the grand scheme of things?” 

“I guess.” 

Veronica nods, looking into Betty’s face. “You want to have a baby. I get that. I always knew you’d be a mom one day - you should be. You’ll be so great. And your kid might just melt Jughead’s sarcasm right out of him.” She smiles, and Betty smiles back, faintly. “Easier said than done, I’m sure, but don’t stress yourself out about this, B. It’s out of your hands.” She uses her fingers to smooth out a tangle in Betty’s hair. “Try to enjoy the _making_ the baby part, hm?” 

Betty breathes a soft, watery laugh. “Yeah.” She touches the skin under her eyes, wincing at how puffy it feels. “V, about the dress - ”

“Say no more. I’ll take care of it. Now, come on. We’re in a store full of women; shouldn’t be too hard to find you a tampon.” 

“I’ll probably have to ditch my underwear,” Betty says, her nose scrunching slightly. “Unless I want to stain this dress, too.” 

“Ah, going commando in New York City,” Veronica sighs, as though she’s talking about something wonderful. She hooks her arm through Betty’s. “Nothing makes a girl feel more alive.”

 

 

At Veronica and Cheryl’s apartment, Betty shares a bedroom with Lizzie so that Emilia can have the other guest room to herself. She waits until her niece falls asleep midway through the second episode of their _New Girl_ binge, closes the laptop, and tucks the fluffy comforter up around Lizzie’s shoulders before she tiptoes into the room’s en suite. She closes the door very slowly, trying not to make any noise, and then sits down crossed-legged on the bathmat and hits the first contact in her phone’s favourites list. 

“Hey there,” Jughead greets when he picks up. 

“Hey back,” she says. His voice makes her feel warm; it encourages some of the tension to seep out of her limbs. “How was your day?”

“Not too eventful, aside from Nacho’s forty-fifth attempt to end his life before it’s even begun. He ate half a dryer sheet.” 

“Oh, god,” Betty sighs, tipping her head back to rest against the edge of the tub. “Is he okay?”

“Yeah, I called the vet. She said to keep an eye on him but that he should be completely fine."

“What a little monster,” she says affectionately. 

“I think he’s acting out because he misses you.” 

She laughs. “That sounds right.”

“How was your day, Betts? It was dress shopping, right?” 

“Yeah, a long day of gowns,” she says, lifting her head, and to avoid talking about herself, adds, “Lizzie loved it.”

“Oh, yeah? Is she still having the time of her life?” 

“Totally,” Betty says, smiling softly. “I’m beginning to think she might ask Cheryl and V if she can stay forever. Cheryl’s definitely her favourite aunt today.” 

“Uh oh, did you have to play bad cop?” Jughead asks. She can imagine the smile on his face, its hint of innuendo. 

“Sort of. I voted to make her dress look a little less… adult. I told her that for our wedding I might let her make her own decisions about her neckline.”

“Our wedding, huh?” There’s some shuffling on his end, the sound of the grumbling noise Nacho makes when he doesn’t think he’s getting adequate attention. “When do you think that will be?”

There’s something in his voice that makes it feel like her own chest is cracking, and she hates it. Betty isn’t concerned about marriage - its eventual certainty is something she feels very secure about; of _course_ she’s going to marry Jughead. It makes her feel terrible to think that she was in love with him when she was married to someone else, that she tucked her feelings for Jughead away somewhere so deep inside her that not even she could reach them, but it seems like the truth, that there was always some part of her reserved for him. She’s loved Jughead Jones for a decade and a half and she can’t imagine not loving him forever. There are no biological limits placed on that love, so marriage isn’t something that worries her, not like the way it gnaws at her sometimes to think of any time crunches that might exist when it comes to having his children. 

Every time he says _marry me_ and she gives an affirmative answer, she thinks of it like a version of _I love you_ , an exchange in which they remind each other that this, their commitment to one another, is a permanent thing. They _are_ married in all ways except documents and rings; they even have a joint account. She always figured they’d be engaged, for real, once he got her a ring. And he did, a beautiful ring, one that she was eager to wear - but he gave it to her less than an hour after Veronica’s phone call, and she knew they couldn’t make it official, not then, not unless she wanted Cheryl Blossom to whirl into Boston to enact some Cersei Lannister-inspired revenge for stealing her moment. 

“I don’t know, honey,” she finally manages to say. “You tell me.”

Jughead’s silent for a beat. “Do my ears deceive me, or are you giving me the all-clear to propose?” 

She smiles to herself, wishing so badly that he was here with her. “Your ears don’t deceive you. I think we’ve waited long enough.” 

“You checked all the etiquette manuals?” 

Betty sighs. “Screw the etiquette manuals, Juggie.” 

He laughs; it’s a low sound, a little rough. “That’s my girl.” 

She sighs again, her throat feeling tight all of a sudden. “I miss you.” 

“God, Betts, I miss you, too.” He releases a sigh of his own, then says, “Hey, tell me about _your_ dress. Is it - what was the word you used? _Adult_?”

“My dress is fine. It’s red.”

All the teasing gone from his voice, he asks, “What’s wrong? Do you hate it? You know Ronnie would go to bat with Cheryl for you.” 

She squeezes her eyes shut. “I don’t hate it. I bled on it.” 

“What?” 

A single tear fights its way out one eye and runs down the side of her nose. “I got my period in that stupid white bridal salon, and I bled on the dress I was wearing. I - I was eight days late. I thought I was pregnant.” Her words come out in a rush. “But I’m not, and the whole thing was terrible, and Veronica had to pay for the dress, and I had a total breakdown, and I had to throw away my favourite underwear.” She draws in a sharp breath. “I was going to tell you when I got home and take a test and - ”

“Betts,” Jughead says softly, his voice a sympathetic hum. “Baby, I’m so sorry.” 

“I’m don’t know why I’m so sad,” she says, her breath hitching. “I just… I thought… ”

“I know,” he says in a tender voice that has her gripping her phone more tightly. “I wish I was there, baby; I wish I could give you a hug.” 

“I should’ve told you before,” she sniffles, “I just didn’t want to jinx it. Which is stupid, because there was nothing to jinx.” 

“You didn’t know that. But - yeah. Tell me the next time you’re late, okay? So I can be excited with you or sad with you or whatever with you. Just let me be with you.” 

A quiet sob slips out of her mouth at that, and she presses her knuckles to her lips to prevent any more from escaping. After a beat she asks, thickly, “Juggie, will you marry me?” 

“Betty Cooper,” he says in the unguarded voice that never fails to make her weak-kneed, the one he used the very first time he ever told her he loved her, “Yes. A thousand times yes.” 

She breathes out a laugh, and she swears she can hear his soft smile over the phone. Neither of them speaks for a moment while she catches her breath. 

“We’re going to have a baby, Betts,” he says. “You know that, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” she whispers. 

“I love you more than anything.”

“Except Nacho,” she reminds him. 

“Eh, I don’t know,” he says in a lighter voice. “You fart less.” 

That makes her giggle as she swipes her index finger under one of her eyes. “Gross.” She exhales slowly. “I love you more than anything, too.” 

“Should I let you go and get some sleep?”

She holds her phone away from her ear for a second to check the time. “Yeah, probably. I miss you. I can’t wait to be home.” 

“The pup and I are counting down the hours.” 

“I love you,” she says again. 

“Love you too, Betts. Sweet dreams.” 

 

 

She gets up fairly early the next morning; she and Veronica are going to another bridal appointment today, with the goal of finally settling on a gown. After she’s dressed, she heads to the dining room, and as usual, finds the table covered in breakfast items. She has yet to actually _see_ any hired help, but Cheryl must be paying someone to do things like this. 

She sits and picks half-heartedly at a croissant until Veronica sets a steaming cup of coffee in front of her and places the sugar bowl and pitcher of milk close by. “Enjoy it while you can, right?” the brunette says softly, giving Betty’s shoulder a squeeze before she settles into her own chair. 

Betty supposes she’s right, and spoons more sugar into the cup than she usually allows herself. Across the table, Cheryl is watching her with eagle-sharp eyes, but she doesn’t say anything. 

Lizzie sets her spoon down in her empty cereal bowl and says, tentatively, “Aunt B… are you okay? Are you mad because of what I said about your wedding yesterday?” 

“Oh, Liz, no,” Betty says, shaking her head. “I’m not upset. I just didn’t sleep very well last night.” 

“I’m sure she’ll feel better after coffee,” Cheryl says. 

Betty has a much better relationship with Cheryl than she did once, but still, the willingness those words convey to accept Betty’s lame excuse for the bags under her eyes is startling. She glances at Veronica immediately, trying not to be too obvious about it, narrowing her eyes ever so slightly. But Veronica widens her own eyes and shakes her head; she hasn’t told Cheryl anything. A moment later her expression shifts, now unimpressed as it asks, _is it so surprising that the woman I’m marrying can be nice sometimes?_

Betty offers her a little smile, a wordless response meant to say _no, of course not; I’m sorry._ She takes a very long drink from her mug and puts a few pieces of fruit on her plate, passively listening to Cheryl and Lizzie discuss their plans for the day. 

 

 

Veronica is torn between three dresses and is finding it impossible to choose between them. She puts all three on, and when that doesn’t lead to any decisions, cycles through them again, looking at herself critically from every angle. 

“What do you think, B?” she asks. 

“They all look amazing on you,” Betty answers honestly. 

“That’s the problem with being so beautiful,” Veronica says dramatically, the impish smile on her lips making her sarcasm clear. She sighs, turning around and craning her neck to check out her ass in the mermaid-style gown she’s currently got on. “We _know_ Cheryl will go dramatic,” she says. “So the question is: should I match her in drama, or go with something simpler, something classic - something a little more Audrey Hepburn?” 

“I think you’ll blow her away in either case.” 

Veronica smiles, still inspecting herself in the mirror. “God, can you believe it?” she asks softly. “I’m getting married and you’re going to have a baby.” 

Betty smiles, too, at the way Veronica says something that’s entirely uncertain with such authority. “I think we might actually be grown-ups now.” She studies her best friend for a moment and then says, “Put the second one back on.” 

One eyebrow lifts briefly, but Veronica nods, sweeping off the pedestal and back into her dressing room, followed by her consultant. She emerges again a few minutes later and steps back onto the pedestal; the consultant crouches down and arranges the dress’ short train expertly. 

It’s the most ‘classic’ of Veronica’s options, a near-perfect white with a chiffon skirt, but not without a bit of drama; it has an illusion neckline, and the delicate, translucent fabric sweeps up over her shoulders and down to her hips, so that the back of the dress is entirely sheer. 

For a long moment, Veronica considers her reflection with pursed lips. When she finally meets Betty’s eyes in the mirror, her own dark eyes are wet, and she dips her chin in a single, firm nod. 

“Oh, V,” Betty says, her voice soft despite her excitement as she hops to her feet. “You look so, so beautiful.” She moves closer to the pedestal, carefully avoiding the train of the dress, and reaches up to hug her best friend. 

Veronica squeezes her tightly and then pulls away, fanning her hands in front of her eyes rapidly to keep tears from falling and ruining her mascara. A box of tissues materializes by them, the silent consultant holding it out. 

“This is turning into a pattern,” she says on a wet laugh, pressing a tissue beneath one of her eyes. “Betty and Veronica cry in bridal salons.” 

Betty smiles at her warmly. “Happy tears, this time.” 

“Happy tears,” Veronica agrees, sneaking another peek at herself in the mirror. 

The consultant pours them champagne and Betty helps Veronica remove any signs that she's been crying from her face before taking about fifty photos of the dress, from the front, the back, and in profile. Eventually, Veronica reluctantly goes to change back into her clothes, and Betty pulls out her phone. 

_V said yes to the dress_ , she texts Jughead. 

He sends back a picture of Nacho, who is passed out on the couch, drooling on one of the throw pillows. _we’re unbearably excited._

She laughs softly and tucks her phone back into her purse. She looks around the store, taking in the sight of dress after dress after dress, and allows herself a moment to consider what kind of dress might give her that elated, joyful, weepy feeling. She wonders if it’s really about the dress or about the person who will see you in it. 

 

 

When she steps off her train in Boston on Monday night, Betty is tired enough that she’s already dreading getting up in time to go to work the next day. Spending five days helping two exacting brides plan their wedding wasn’t exactly relaxing, and she still feels weighed down by a residual sadness she can’t quite shake. 

Nonetheless, the minute she sees Jughead, her mouth curves automatically into a smile. He’s waiting for her with a small bouquet of tulips in one hand, glancing around, doing his covert version of people-watching, undoubtedly forming some piece of a narrative in his head. When he sees her, he smiles, too, and walks forward a few paces to meet her. 

“Hey, you,” he says. 

She puts a hand on his jaw and presses a kiss to his lips, and then takes the flowers from him so that when she hugs him, he can use both arms to hug her back. His arms wrap around her, holding her close to him, and she breathes him in, all his familiar smells. “Hi,” she murmurs against his shoulder. 

He rubs a hand gently over her back. “Good to be back?” 

She nods against him. Tears prick at her eyes and she squeezes them shut. 

Their hug last for several moments, Jughead’s hand smoothing unhurriedly over her back. When her grip on him loosens infinitesimally, he turns his face and plants several kisses on her cheek before pulling back slowly. 

He reaches for her suitcase, turns to her as if to say something, and then closes his mouth and uses his free hand to cup her cheek briefly. He sighs. “Don’t look like that. I never know what to do with those sad eyes of yours.” 

Betty exhales slowly and lets her smile widen by degrees. “I can think of a few things,” she says, winking with one of her tired, cried-out eyes. 

He flashes her a grin and says, with faux seriousness, “You probably want to take a shower. I can help with that.”

“How generous,” she teases, eyes fluttering closed a beat later when he leans in to kiss her. 

“Let’s go home,” Jughead says. She nods, and lets him lead the way. 

 

 

tbc.


	3. Chapter 3

**October 2031.**

Jughead’s perspective on Octobers has changed a great deal over the course of his life.

For many years, he disliked the month vehemently. It was the month of his birthday, and that was a day he hadn’t enjoyed since kindergarten, a day he always wished could be forgotten; he hated the embarrassment prickling the back of his neck when his elementary school teachers would lead his classmates in singing ‘Happy Birthday,’ he hated when his parents bought him an ice cream cake and smiled at him like he couldn’t see right through them, like he hadn’t hear them yelling the previous night, and he hated it even more when they couldn’t bring themselves to pretend, and the half-assed attempt at a party would fall apart before it had even begun.

October was also the month of Halloween, which he hadn’t exactly hated as a young child, but he’d always been aware that his costumes were not carefully crafted at a mother’s sewing machine or purchased at a store for the kind of money that his parents would never spend so carelessly, at least not when they were trying to be responsible. The minute Halloween turned into a day he’d get dragged to the Blossoms’ or to Reggie’s, where he’d watch his peers act like their costumes made them both invisible and invincible, he was done with the holiday.

Often, the worst part of the month was the change it signalled. It was decidedly no longer summer or those hazy first couple weeks of the school year when nothing seemed entirely real yet; he could no longer sleep over at Archie’s for five nights in a row without either set of their parents questioning it. A chill would seep into the air, and some years his jackets felt threadbare, the cuffs of the sleeves coming to a stop above his wrists. It was October, not April, that he’d always found to be the cruelest month.

And then his view of things was flipped and twisted and demanded reexamination, the year October came around only a few days after he’d kissed Betty Cooper.

October makes him think of her mouth in painfully vulnerable, beautiful shapes: in Archie’s garage reaching hands toward his cheeks, in Pop’s diner unfolding her fingers to show him her darkest pieces, laid out naked on his childhood bed and murmuring his name like a prayer, sitting in his dad’s old truck on the road from Hoboken to New York City. The month makes him think of a grey sweater with a crown on it, of her soft green eyes, of how her voice sounds when she calls him _Juggie_.

It makes him think of falling in love. Even in the intervening years, when thinking of Betty could make his breath catch like a punch to the gut, he could never quite hate it the same way.

This year, this October, he’s going to ask that girl, the one who completely changed how he looks at a calendar, to be his wife.

 

 

 

He is happy with his life in a way that almost makes him anxious, as if this much contentment could only ever be temporary. He likes the kids at his job, even the ones who never do their homework; he likes the ridiculous things they say, how unselfconscious they are, the way their eyes will light up when they finally _get_ whatever it is they’ve been struggling with. He’s always considered himself a novelist, when it comes to his writing, but he’s currently working on a short story cycle, and he’s been consistently inspired to write pieces of it. He loves his ridiculous troublemaker of a dog, who is growing like a weed but still acting like a puppy.

He’s having the best sex of his life.

They’re fucking all the time, but the days that Betty’s ovulating, according to the app on her phone that she checks religiously, are completing blowing his mind. She’s barely in the door after work before she’s _on_ him, even if he’s in the midst of making dinner. The heat between them may have begun as a let’s-make-a-baby thing, but it’s turned into something more; they’re like teenagers again, unable to keep their hands off each other. The only difference is that he’s always supposed to come inside her, which he’s definitely not complaining about - there’s nothing better than being buried inside her, feeling her so tight around him. He’s breaking his own records for orgasms per day.

This Tuesday, she’s caught up late at work, so Jughead’s got their dinner on the warming section of the stovetop and is eating crackers and cheese to tide himself over. He’s wearing her apron, the one she wears when she bakes cookies or makes pizza dough, his boxers, and nothing else, intending to tease her. They’ve already had sex twice today: he woke in the early morning to her mouth around him and eventually pinned her against the mattress and finished with her legs hitched around his waist and her nails raking down his back; he brought her lunch at her office and they had a quickie in the back of the car. He feels like he might just be the luckiest man on the planet.

Betty only confirms that suspicion when she gets home, tiredness evident at the edges of her eyes, wisps of hair framing her face. She laughs when she sees him, asks, “Are you _naked_ under that?”

Jughead waggles his eyebrows, says, “Come and see,” and they’re sprawled out on the couch thirty seconds later. When he pushes her pencil skirt up her legs, he feels only the skin over her hipbones, and discovers that she’s not wearing any underwear. There’s a little smirk on her lips and her hips are already canting up impatiently, and that’s all it takes, he’s rock hard.

“Fuck,” he sighs against her neck, undoing the buttons of her blouse with clumsy fingers. She’s wearing a camisole underneath and he practically growls, yanking both it and the cup of her bra downward so that he can close his mouth around her peaked nipple. He uses his tongue and his teeth to make her whimper, and when she starts to writhe, wanting more, he positions himself between her legs and moves into her.

Her lips brush against his, but they’re not quite kissing, panting against each other’s mouths. He’s got his hands braced on either side of her, and she slips her own hand between their bodies to rub her clit, her eyes falling shut as she breathes, “God, yeah.” It’s only a beat later that she opens her eyes, lashes fluttering rapidly, and all but orders, “Come, Jug.”

She clenches around him and he does, reciting a litany with his mouth against the corner of hers, murmuring about how beautiful she is, how much he loves her.

He lets her body take on some of his weight, laying atop her as they catch their breath. She combs her fingers lazily through his hair.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he tells her quietly. “Have you not been wearing underwear since lunch?”

“Mm-mm,” she says, shaking her head to the negative.

“Christ,” he sighs, looking into her face. Her eyes are gleaming with something triumphant; she’s proud of the effect she has on him, and she should be, but he decides two can play at that game. He shifts his weight so that he’s pressed closer to the back of the couch, which gives him room to slide a hand down the flat plane of her stomach before slipping fingers between her legs.

“Juggie,” she says, and it sounds a bit like a protest, but at the same time she shifts her legs apart, giving him even more room to work.

“Is this what you thought about all afternoon?” he asks. “Naked under that skirt?” He touches her clit lightly, assuming she’s still a little sensitive, and she mewls, her fingers curling around a handful of her blouse’s silky fabric.

“Yes,” she sighs, turning her face to kiss him.

It doesn’t take long to get her off the second time, her body pliant under his hands, quiet words spilling out of her mouth and her fingers scrambling for purchase on his bicep until her head tips back against the couch cushions and she comes.

Jughead presses a soft kiss to her mouth and her hand lifts to touch his cheek. This is the surreal part of their sex life lately, that while they’ve become so insatiable, while things between them are so often desperate and dirty, each and every time could possibly be _it_. It could be the moment she gets pregnant, the moment a clock starts counting down to the moment he dives into fatherhood. It’s the tender undercurrent of every moment of pleasure, and he knows Betty feels it, too, as her mouth moves against his in a slow, lazy kiss.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, pushing her hair out of her face.

“Yeah,” she says. “Just let me change.”

He nods, plants one last kiss on her lips, and then straightens and get off the couch, pulling her up with him.

 

 

 

They eat dinner on the couch with Netflix on; they’re rewatching _Firefly_. Nacho sits at the feet, alert, waiting for a single crumb of food to fall from either of their plates. Afterward, Jughead tosses a stuffed toy for the dog to fetch, and Betty curls her legs up onto the couch, turning to face him. She’s wearing sweatpants, now, and one of his white t-shirts, and this is how he likes her best, cozy and relaxed in his clothes, shoving her freezing cold toes beneath his thigh, sandwiching them between his leg and the couch.

“Did you decide what movie you want to see for your belated birthday?” she asks.

His birthday had coincided with the day he works late at the tutoring centre, so they hadn’t been able to make his traditional birthday movie. He’d come home and eaten nearly all of Betty’s fresh-baked brownies while they shared a bottle of red, and he thought it was a great day, overall, but he knows she thinks it wasn’t quite enough.

“Not yet,” he tells her, rubbing her calf idly with the hand that’s not covered in Nacho’s slobber. “I’ll check and see what’s out.”

She smiles. “Do you promise?”

“Cross my heart,” he says, looking over at her, smiling back.

“Good,” she says. She leans her cheek against the back of the couch, and for a few minutes they both watch Nacho as he gleefully chases his toy and brings it back to Jughead, over and over again.

When he turns back to her, about to comment on Nacho’s obvious exhaustion but total unwillingness to quit, he finds that she’s curled up more comfortably against the back of the couch and her eyes are closed.

“Tired, baby?” he asks lightly.

Her lashes flutter; he can tell she’d been falling asleep. “No,” she murmurs in a voice that’s not quite fully awake.

“That’s enough for tonight, dude,” he tells Nacho, putting a foot down on the toy, the signal that play time is done. He gives Nacho’s head a rub, ignoring the way the dog is looking back and forth between his face and the toy with pleading eyes. “You’re a good boy.” He turns to Betty again. “Long day?”

She opens her eyes with obvious effort and yawns. “Sort of. It’s only…” She glances at the time on the TV. “It’s not even eight yet; I don’t know why I’m crashing.”

“All that physical activity,” he says, winking at her and squeezing her ankle.

Betty grins. “Yeah, that’s got to be it.”

“Go to bed if you’re tired, Betts. I’ll do the dishes and W-A-L-K Nacho around the block.”

“You cooked,” she reminds him. “Leave the dishes. I’ll do them in the morning.”

“Okay,” he says, though he intends to do no such thing - and she knows it, her eyes narrowing immediately.

“Juggie, I mean it.”

“I know you do,” he says easily, but he doesn’t acquiesce.

She sighs, dropping her feet to the floor. “You’re my favourite boyfriend, do you know that?”

“Oh, I know. I hear the other guys don’t even do you the courtesy of the leaving the dishes to soak before you’ve got to wash them.” He smiles at her; she looks all tousled and sleepy and adorable. “Come here,” he adds, and he leans in too, their mouths meeting in a kiss.

“I love you to the moon and back,” she says softly after they pull apart.

“Back atcha, baby,” he says simply, stamping a kiss against her cheek before he nudges her off to bed.

 

 

 

Their lives continue on as normal: busy work weeks, Saturdays full of errands and an extra-long walk with Nacho, lazy Sunday mornings in bed and afternoons spent making dinner. He falls asleep every night with Betty curled against him in one way or another, sometimes pressed so tightly to him that she feels like an extension of his own body, sometimes with a foot hooked over his ankle and an arm slung across his chest. One of Betty’s coworkers invites them to Halloween party, and they begin to debate costumes; she wants to be Dorothy and dress him as the Tin Man so that Nacho can be Toto. Veronica calls at least once a week and asks Betty’s opinion on centrepieces or song choices for certain moments, and on one evening while she leans over her computer, phone pressed to her ear, and is impressively patient as she looks through chocolate fountains of various sizes, Jughead opens his own computer and orders fifty fake tea lights.

He’s plotted out his proposal. It’s not as elaborate as his last plan, no cannoli, no moonlight strolls, but he’s still going to make Nacho wear his sign, and he’s going to pepper the tea lights throughout their apartment until there are so many that they’d be a fire hazard, were they real. He intends for it to surprise Betty, he intends for it to be meaningful, but it doesn’t need to be over-the-top, and in truth he’d rather they were alone while he’s baring his heart. And after last time, when he’d told her of his plan and she’d worn the ring for one night, he doesn’t think she feels as though she needs something elaborate - the look on her face when he’d sat naked on their bed and revealed the ring to her had been exactly the look he wants, all soft and rich in the depth of its emotion.

Betty tells Veronica she loves her, hangs up the phone, and collapses back into the couch, exhaling in a way that makes a _phew_ sound.

“Is it even possible to have a chocolate fountain too large?” he asks her teasingly, shutting his laptop quickly.

She frowns at him, unamused. “Helping Polly plan her wedding was never this difficult.”

“Your sister’s a little less… intense than Veronica and Cheryl.”

“And Carter didn’t give a shit about anything,” she sighs. “I guess when one girl who tends to get whatever she wants marries another, there’s bound to be conflict. They both have such clear visions of what the day should be and _everything_ is a discussion.”

“Hey, if it makes you feel better - our wedding can be all you and your visions.”

She smiles. “Liar. You’d want the biggest chocolate fountain possible.”

“Hell yeah.” He grins at her. “I’d want to dunk you in it and lick you clean.”

Betty laughs, giving her eyes a little roll before her gaze skims down his body and her hand starts to sneak across the couch cushions, toward him. “You wanna…”

“Of course,” he says, taking her hand and lacing their fingers together. “But you look beat, baby.” She’s been a little busier at work lately, and he figures that the extra meetings crammed into her schedule, in addition to their amped-up sex life, the maid of honour duties that require her to talk Veronica down from the ledge on a weekly basis, and the long walks that Nacho’s boundless energy demands, are enough to cause the faint purplish hue underneath her eyes that’s evident once she takes off her makeup.

“That is _not_ how you pick up a girl, Jones,” she says, but he notices that she doesn’t argue his point.

“No? Is _this_ how you pick up a girl?” he asks, and in one swift motion he releases her hand and gets to his feet, sliding one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back as he scoops her up.

“Jug!” she says on a laugh. “God, you’re going to break your back,” she adds as he carries her to the bedroom.

“I will have you know that I _lift_ ,” he says teasingly, laying her down gently on their bed. “And that keeping Nacho from pulling on his leash is an intense arm workout.”

“Mm, very true,” she says, tugging him down on top of her.

He settles between her legs and they trade lazy kisses, her leg curling around him and her heel resting at the small of his back, a signal he easily understands. They help each other out of their clothes unhurriedly and make love slowly, sleepily. Betty curls against him afterward, her breath already in the long, steady pattern of slumber, and he has to nudge her to remind her to get up and pee. When she returns to the bed, she snuggles up under their blankets and he strokes his fingers through her hair; she’s dead to the world in mere minutes.

 

 

 

Jughead waits for one of Betty's weekday texts, usually sent around four-thirty, which inform him that she'll be getting home late. It finally happens on a Wednesday, and he races home after his last tutoring session. He places all fifty tea lights strategically throughout the living room and the kitchen, the only rooms visible from the entryway of the apartment, turns out all the overhead lights, hangs Nacho’s sign around his neck, and tells the dog very seriously: “If you behave and go greet her like normal, I will buy you a giant, delicious bully stick. Okay?”

He takes off his work clothes and throws on navy blue khakis and a light blue button-down that Betty likes to teasingly say makes his eyes look like the colour of the sky. He retrieves the ring in its box.

And he waits.

Eventually, he hears the rattle of Betty’s keys, the turn of a key in the lock, and then the sound of the door opening. His heart starts to race, which is ridiculous, because he knows she’ll say yes - but he still wants this moment to be romantic, to be right.

Nacho runs off to say hello, his nails clacking on the wooden floor. Their apartment is small enough that, despite the sound of his heart pounding in his ears, he can hear Betty’s sharp intake of breath.

“Oh, buddy,” he hears her says softly, the slightest shake in her voice, and he knows that Nacho’s approached her with the cheesy sign around his neck. That’s his cue, so he steps out of the bedroom and heads for the entryway.

Betty’s bag is on the floor, and she’s crouched down in front of Nacho, giving him a good scratch under his collar. When she sees Jughead, she straightens up slowly, her eyes glimmering in the flickering faux-candlelight.

“Jug,” she breathes.

He offers her a smile as he approaches, and he can _feel_ that it’s nervous. “Betty Cooper,” he says. His voice sounds particularly low, a little gravelly, and he can just make out the little twitch of her lips, the one that so often precedes tears.

He moves closer to her, taking a deep breath in preparation for his speech. Her eyes are so warm on his face, so full of feeling. He licks his lips quickly and then opens his mouth to speak, but she beats him to the punch.

“Juggie, I’m pregnant,” she says, words rushed together, her voice choked with emotion.

He blinks at her, his mind going blank for an instant before he manages to think about twenty different thoughts simultaneously, including _holy fuck_ and _that’s amazing_ and _am I ever going to be able to propose to this woman without something else happening first?_

In spite of this slew of reactions, what he does manage to say, finally, is, “Seriously?”

 

  

tbc.


	4. Chapter 4

**October 2031.**

 

 

“Seriously?” Jughead asks, and Betty says, “Yeah,” with the slightest tremor in her quiet voice. She feels faintly wonderstruck and has for a few hours now, feels as though she could burst with how much untempered hope she's holding inside herself, feels so full of happiness that the depth of the emotion spreads right to the tips of her shaking fingers.

They look at each other for a moment, and she sees so very many things flash through his eyes before she manages to take a moderately deep breath and amend, “Well, I mean, I'm pretty sure. I haven’t - I didn’t take a test, I thought we should do that together, but someone ordered pizza at lunch today and when I smelled it, it was so - ” She wrinkles her nose at the memory. “I threw up. From the smell of pepperoni pizza. I can’t think of why else that would’ve happened, only that…”

He finishes her sentence: “Only that you’re pregnant.”

“Yeah,” she whispers, and his gaze falls to her midsection. Nacho whines at her feet, wanting to be played with or pet, and she drops a hand absentmindedly to rub the top of his head.

“You should take the test,” Jughead says softly, eyes flicking up to her face and then back to her belly. “So we know for sure.”

She nods, and it’s as though that movement snaps her out of the daze she’s been in since the early afternoon, when she chewed three pieces of gum at once so that no one in her meeting would think she had vomit-breath and carefully counted the days since her last period, and while she’d known, when she walked in, when she saw the candles and the sign around their dog’s neck, what was happening, what he had planned, it really _hits_ her then, and she sucks in a sharp breath.

“Oh, Jug,” she sighs, pressing a hand to one of her cheeks. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have just blurted that out, I was - ”

“Betts, it’s okay,” he cuts in, shaking his head as he moves closer to her. “You should take a test.”

She shakes her head, too. “After.” When one of his eyebrows arches upward, she adds, “I think… you have a question to ask me.”

“Isn’t there a more pressing question to answer?” he asks, reaching out to rest a hand on her hip like he has a million times before, but this time there’s something different about it, about the careful curl of his fingers, the light pressure of his palm, the way his thumb sweeps upward over her abdomen.

The way he touches her sends a jolt of tenderness through her, and she feels every bit as overwhelmed by her love for him as she is by the possibility that they’re having a baby. “It can wait,” she says, and means it. She wants to kiss him but figures she should wait, and suggests, “Let’s rewind, okay?” She nudges Nacho aside gently and steps back out of the apartment, closing the door behind her.

In the hallway, she waits a few seconds, trying to rein in her runaway emotions, and then she opens the door once again.

Jughead’s standing where she left him, now with Nacho at his side, one finger hooked into the dog’s collar so that he'll stay still in order for Betty to read the words on the sign he wears: _will you marry my dad?_

“I’d totally marry your dad, mister,” she tells the dog lightly.

Jughead releases Nacho’s collar - he takes off toward the kitchen - and extends his hand to her. “C’mere, you.”

She takes his hand and lets him tug her closer until their bodies are almost touching. He weaves their fingers together.

“I love you, Betts,” he says, a slight smile on his lips, but his eyes are so serious, so intent on her face.

“I love you, too.”

“I had a whole spiel planned. Or, really, I’ve had about a thousand different speeches planned, but they change almost every day because every day I’m hit with a whole bunch of new reasons why I love you. And today… ” He releases a breath very slowly. “It doesn’t matter if the pregnancy test you take today is positive or not. You’re giving me a family. You’ve _given_ me a family. Even when I was a kid, sometimes I didn’t quite feel like I had one, and after my mom and JB left Riverdale…”

Betty squeezes his hand when he trails off. Her heart feels like it’s morphed into a hummingbird.

“I didn’t really have a family or even a home, then. But when I was fifteen, and I kissed you in that damn pastel pink bedroom of yours… all of a sudden, I did, and there was no changing it. No matter what’s happened between us, Betts, even when our relationship was shit and we were barely friends and we hardly saw each other, that was there. I’d see you and we’d say hi and it would be weird but then we’d start talking about some book or even the fucking weather and it would just feel…” He lifts his other hand to cup her cheek. “With you, it’s always like coming home. I think I’ve loved you since that very first day in your bedroom. And I know I always will.”

He drops his hand and disentangles their fingers so that he can reach into his pocket for a box she’s already seen once. She can see his chest rise as he breathes in deeply before kneeling down in front of her.

“Will you marry me, Betty Cooper?” he asks.

She nods, the tears gathered in her eyes causing him to blur in front of her. She attempts to blink them away, but a couple slip down her cheeks. “I’ll always love you, too,” she promises him quietly. “You’re _my_ home. You gave me somewhere safe.” She takes a deep breath of her own and bites her lower lip when it quivers. “Yes, Jughead. Of course I’ll marry you.”

He gives her one of his rarer smiles, one that is simply _happy_ , not tinged with wryness or teasing, and carefully slides the ring onto her left hand. It really is beautiful, the flickering light of the candles reflected in its stone, and its presence on her finger is a pleasant, reassuring weight that she knows she’ll get used to quickly. She cups Jughead’s jaw in her hand and applies gentle pressure upward, indicating that he should stand, and he does, getting to his feet and gathering her in a tight hug in one smooth movement.

His hand lifts to rest against the back of her head and she closes her eyes. That feeling he gives her, that sense of safety, is amplified when he holds her like this, like she’s the most precious thing in his world, like he could shield her from anything, like he’ll hold her up, keep her standing, if ever she struggles to find the strength to do so on her own.

“I love you, baby,” he murmurs into her hair, and a tear glides down the side of her nose.

“Love you, too,” she replies, smiling against his shoulder as she clutches him ever more tightly.

Jughead rubs her back and they just hug each other for a moment before Betty presses a kiss to his jaw, and then one to his cheek, and then finds his lips with her own. The kiss they share is long and deep and passionate, and when they break apart she murmurs, “I can’t wait ’til you’re my husband.”

“Neither can I, Betts.” He runs his fingers through her hair and gives her another kiss. “D’you think it’s time for you to pee on a stick?”

She lets out a little laugh and nods, her heart starting to race once again.

 

 

They sit together on the edge of the bathtub, the timer on Betty’s phone counting down seconds. The pregnancy test has been capped and now sits on the counter by the sink, its little screen not visible to them. After a frustrating incident with a very, very faint second line appearing on an earlier test, they’d sprung for the fanciest ones out there, with some sort of early detection technology and straightforward results: the window on the test will read ‘pregnant,’ their future determined by whether or not the word ‘not’ precedes it.

Jughead trails a hand up and down her arm. “I love you no matter what,” he says. “And this is a good day, no matter what.”

She nods. “No matter what.”

The timer dings, and they look at each other, both a bit wide-eyed. Betty silences it but doesn’t move.

“Betts?”

She turns back to her boyfriend - her fiancé - and says, “Will you look?”

“Sure.” He squeezes her to his side in a half-hug and then drops the arm he’s got around her, standing up and taking two steps over the sink, where he picks up the pregnancy test.

Betty reminds herself to keep breathing as she watches him, her eyes pinned on his face, searching for clues that the news is good or bad, but she can’t quite read his expression. “Juggie?” she prods.

He meets her eyes. “I don’t know what your mom’s going to say about her _second_ daughter getting pregnant out of wedlock.”

She presses a hand over her mouth. In a voice that squeaks a little, she asks, “It’s positive?”

He grins, then, holding it out to show her as he nods. “You’re going to be a mom.”

Despite the fact that she’s felt certain she’s pregnant since lunchtime, she still feels a hint of disbelief, and she reads the word _pregnant_ on the test six times before it sinks in, at which point she practically launches herself into Jughead’s arms, her legs around his waist.

He laughs, staggering slightly under the impact of her body, and slips his hands beneath her thighs to hold her up.

“We’re having a baby,” she breathes, almost laughing.

“We’re having a baby,” he echoes, words full of warmth, and then he laughs, too. “Holy shit.”

“Oh my god,” she says with a small shake of her head, full-out giggling now. “Jug, I love you.”

Betty kisses him firmly, open-mouthed. Moments later he’s set her down on the vanity, and it’s not long before her skirt is pushed up around her hips, her pantyhose and panties on the floor, and he’s inside of her; she’s got fingers curled tightly around the edge of the countertop, his own fingers are tangled in her hair and tugging with just enough force to make her moan, her head tipped back as he whispers words against the column of her neck and murmurs “best thing that’s ever happened to me, baby,” while she falls apart around him, clasping a fistful of his button-down shirt desperately, the sparkling glint of her ring reflected in the mirror behind her.

 

 

The picture she sends to Veronica later in the evening features her left hand in front of her face, engagement ring prominently displayed, fingers wrapped loosely around a pregnancy test positioned so that the window exhibiting its result is visible. Her hand shields her mouth, but her smile is evident in her eyes, which are still a bit wet. Her hair is still mussed up from sex, but she can’t bring herself to care.

Veronica calls less than ten minutes later, when Betty’s curled up in bed next to Jughead, Nacho turning circles at their feet. She’s already in tears as she says, “B, oh my god. You’re pregnant!”

The emotion in Veronica’s voice is enough to make Betty feel choked up. “Yeah,” she says, and stops at that, her throat tight.

“Betty…” Veronica trails off like she’s at a loss for words, and then finally says, “I’m so happy for you, I know how much you wanted this, and you’re getting _married_ , finally, and it’s just - ” She goes quiet again, save for the sound of her sniffling. “B, this is right. This is the right guy for you to marry and it’s the right person for you to have a baby with, and I just - I love you, both of you, so much, and I’m just…” She laughs wetly. “I’m so, so happy for you. This is what both you and Jughead deserve.”

“Oh, V,” Betty says softly, touched. “Thank you. I’m really happy, too.”

“I can’t wait for you wedding; I know it’ll be wonderful. And I’m going to love that baby so much.”

“And spoil it so much, I’m sure,” Betty replies, pressing her palm briefly to her flat stomach.

“Of course.” After blowing her nose, she adds, “You know, I hear Veronica’s a really great name for a girl.”

Wryly, Betty says, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good. Cher wants to talk to you, I’m going to give the phone to her.”

“Okay,” Betty says, and a moment later Cheryl’s smooth-as-honey voice is in her ear, saying hello.

“Congratulations, on two counts,” she adds. “Did he pop the question before or after you took the test? I’d like to know if we’ll be attending a shotgun wedding.”

Betty rolls her eyes. “Before.”

“Lovely. Have you picked your colours yet?”

“Cheryl,” Betty says, with the fond exasperation her quasi-cousin so often makes her feel, “we’ve been engaged for like four hours.”

“And Veronica and I had a colour scheme selected in two.”

Betty glances over at Jughead, who’s pretending to read, but the fact that he’s listening to her conversation is obvious in the little smirk he’s wearing. “Whatever our colours are, they won’t be the same as yours,” she says, because that’s what Cheryl really wants to hear.

“I’d hope you don’t let your baby daddy convince you to do black on black, either.”

“I’m sure we can reach a compromise,” Betty says, smiling down at the ring on her hand.

There’s a beat of silence that stretches long enough for her to furrow her brow and open her mouth to ask if Cheryl’s still there, but the words don’t leave her mouth, because Cheryl says, “I really am very happy for you, Betty. You’re - you’ve never been anything but good to me, even when I wasn’t very good to you. I know from how you are with the twins that you’ll be an amazing mother. I - ” There’s another pause during which it quite literally sounds like Cheryl is swallowing her pride. “I’m honoured that you’ll be standing with us during our wedding. And I look forward to yours.”

“Thank you, Cheryl,” Betty says, her voice barely louder than a whisper, surprised and deeply affected. “That means a lot.”

“Yes, well,” Cheryl says, her words crisp and sharp as though she needs to cover up her previous softness. “We are family, after all. Tell Jughead we’re eager to welcome him to our motley crew.”

“I will.”

“You should see me right now,” Veronica says when she comes back on the line. “My mascara’s a mess. Can you pass me to Jug for a minute?”

“Sure,” Betty says, and extends the phone to him. “V wants to talk to you.”

He accepts the phone from her and holds it to his ear. “Hey, Ronnie.”

Betty pats her lap, and Nacho happily leaves his spot at the foot of the bed to come lay on her legs. She scratches beneath his collar, murmuring, “You’re getting so big. Maybe we should take another obedience class, hm? Just to make sure you’re ready to share your house with a baby. What do you think?”

He looks at her adoringly, his tongue lolling out of his mouth.

Beside them, Jughead says, “Yeah, thanks. Yeah. She’s wearing it, so I hope she likes it.” He laughs. “Yes, I’ll give you at least forty percent of the credit.” His expression sobers slightly. “Thank you, Ronnie. It is. Okay. I’m sure we’ll talk soon. Here’s Betts.”

Veronica’s sniffling again when Betty takes the phone back. “He’s barely even fazed anymore when I cry,” she says. “He’ll do great with baby Veronica.”

“V, I love you,” Betty says on a laugh. “But I’ll be honest with you right now and tell you that we’re not naming our daughter Veronica.”

“God, your daughter,” Veronica murmurs. “That makes it so real.”

Betty bites her lower lip lightly and glances back at Jughead, who has now set down his book and is turned toward her, patting Nacho. She wonders which of his features she’ll find in their child’s face. “Yeah. It does.”

“I’ll let you go rest… or _not_ rest,” Veronica teases. “Give me a call tomorrow, okay? I’ve only got nine months to change your mind about my future niece’s name. Every day counts.”

“Okay, V. Love you. Tell Cheryl we say goodnight.”

“Will do, future Mrs. Jones. Love you, too.”

Once they’ve hung up, Betty puts her phone down and nestles back against the pillows. “What did Veronica say to you?” she asks Jughead.

“Nothing much. Just congratulations. She knows I’ve been planning a proposal for a while, so she’s pretty excited.”

“I heard something about her deserving forty percent of the credit for your ring choice?”

“Nah, more like twenty.” He wraps his arm around her, pulling her a little closer; when she shifts, Nacho harrumphs and jumps off the bed. “But she said you could give me one hundred percent of the rewards.”

“She did, hm?”

“Yeah,” he says, and kisses her hard, pushing blankets aside and moving on top of her. It’s something they’ve done so many times that it requires no thought, only muscle memory: Betty uses one of her own hands to tug the sheets out from between them and curls her legs around him, her hips lifting up automatically.

She means to tease him more, but he breathes, “God, you’re so beautiful,” and nips at her collarbone, and all thoughts of banter disappear from her mind. She gives her body over to him as he peels off her shorts and t-shirt and puts his mouth on every inch of her skin, sparking electricity inside of her.

“I love you,” she chants over and over as she comes under his mouth, and she’s whispering, “Inside me,” before she’s even caught her breath. He presses his forehead to hers as he hitches one of her legs up, and she lifts her hands briefly to touch his cheeks. Their eyes meet and their breath mingles between their mouths.

It’s too much, between them, so much that she feels overcome by it; it fills her to the brim and then some, and yet, it’s still not quite enough, and he must understand that, because he closes his eyes and says, “I want to fuck you forever,” and all she can do is tilt her chin up and kiss him fiercely, murmuring, “Please,” right into his mouth.

 

 

Betty wakes the next morning before her alarm, when the bedroom is blue-grey, light from the sunrise slipping in through the blinds. She’s kicked off the blankets in her sleep, and the t-shirt of Jughead’s that she’s wearing is rucked up to just beneath her breasts. There is a soft weight on her stomach, and as she blinks her eyes open she feels a calloused thumb smooth over her skin.

“Morning,” Jughead says, his voice rough from sleep.

“Mm,” she sighs, pushing her hair out of her face. “Good morning.” She smiles at him, faint and drowsy, and then glances down. His hand is resting on her belly, fingers spread, thumb stroking back and forth. “What’re you up to?”

“Just… letting it sink in that our kid is in there.”

She touches his cheek, running her thumb over the stubble on his jaw. “I’m not sure it even counts as a kid yet. It’s probably the size of a peanut or something.”

“Hm.” He turns his face to kiss the pad of her thumb. “Well, I think it’s a peanut with your eyes.”

She grins and drops her hand to join his, lacing their fingers together. “A peanut with your _serious_ scowl,” she teases.

“A peanut with your heart,” he says, and shifts downward on the bed, leaning over her and pressing a kiss just to left of her bellybutton.

Betty runs her free hand through his hair, feeling, simultaneously, a shudder of desire and a sense of love that's closer to agape than eros, so powerful that it makes tears sting her eyes. “We shouldn’t be too happy, not yet,” she says quietly. “In the first twelve weeks it’s all still really uncertain, I've read that - ”

Jughead shifts again, stretching upward and interrupting her with a kiss. “Betty. Baby, I love you, but shut up. I’m so fucking happy I don’t know what to do with it, and you should be, too. No matter how early it is, that peanut’s our baby. It’ll turn into an eggplant or whatever the hell comes next, and then it’ll turn into a person. Our person. You and me.” His thumb strokes over her belly again. “Enough shit has happened, Betts. We’re having a baby and we’re getting married and we’re… _good_. Everything's good.”

She wrinkles her nose up apologetically before she says, “Honey, there’s no way for you to _know_ that.”

He lifts one eyebrow. “That’s where you’re wrong. I’ve been awake for half an hour. The peanut and I have been conversing.”

That surprises a laugh out of her, lips curling up into a smile. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” He settles his head onto her pillow. “He’s surprisingly verbose for a legume. Told me to tell his mother not to worry.”

“He?” Betty asks softly, her eyes searching his face.

“Or she. Peanuts don’t subscribe to human schools of thought on sex and gender.”

She stifles another laugh, and says fondly, “You’re a goof.” She looks at her stomach, which is the same as it’s ever been, totally unchanged, revealing no hints as to what’s going on in her uterus. “Your father thinks he’s funny,” she tells it, like this is a sentiment their peanut-slash-person can understand.

When she looks back at Jughead, his eyes are pratically radiating affection, and she shuffles closer, tilting her chin up to kiss him.

“Want me to make you breakfast in bed?” he murmurs against her mouth. “If you’re feeling okay, I mean. Are you nauseous or anything?”

“No, but I can make my own breakfast.”

“Or you could let me do it and get a little more rest.”

She narrows her eyes. “Tell me you’re not going to start hovering.”

“I would, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to lie to your fiancée so soon after your engagement. Toast and an egg?”

Seeing that he’s not going to relent, she gives in, pulling the blankets back over herself. “Yeah, that sounds good. Thanks, Juggie.”

“Of course, Betts. Anytime.” He kisses her softly before he gets up.

She’s just closed her eyes when she hears his footsteps coming back toward the bedroom, and she opens them again to find him leaning in around the doorway, his expression contemplative.

“Hey. Am I going to have to quit eating pizza for the next nine months?”

She bites back a smile and tries to adopt a regretful expression. “At least in my vincinity, yeah,” she says, propping herself up on one elbow, and then teases him, “Still super happy?”

“Baby, you have no idea,” he says, dropping one eyelid in a wink before he disappears down the hall once again.

Betty lays back down and lets a silly grin take over her face as she looks up at the ceiling, feeling like the lovestruck teenager she was, once. If fifteen-year-old Betty Cooper knew that this was where she’d end up, all these years later, feeling the same way about the same boy, her love still settled in his hands, his baby growing beneath her heart - she’d probably be over the moon.

 

tbc.


End file.
